In the Month of Athyr[B]

THESE ruins seem a womb of cringing air, So thin that the ears tingle, flickering, And every barren plant is withering, Ready to snap, like glass, for sheer despair ... And through the ether mountains loom like bones So hollow you could scrape a melody Sounding like water from them, oozily To this sun-stricken desert-world of groans. The light is cruel: it is hard to read The letters on these stones, but, lo, the words: “Lord Jesus Christ” and further “soul”; what birds Erased the script with droppings? and what weed Has wrested from these crevices a home? “In month of Athyr” ... “Lucius fell asleep”.... His age is mentioned: he was young; and deep Beneath the damaged parts, as in a foam Of centuries I see, disfigured, “tears.” Then “tears” again, “for us his friends who weep”.... Lucius was much belovèd, it appears. In grey November ... Lucius fell asleep....